


Maybe

by Firgolfin



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, F/M, Hope?, Loneliness, Love Triangle, Masturbation, Sadness, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firgolfin/pseuds/Firgolfin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen struggles after Halamshiral, not only with his demons but also with his love for the Inquisitor, Arya Trevelyan, who had admitted to have feelings for him, too, but is also in love and in a relationship with the grey warden Blackwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pixiedurango](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiedurango/gifts).



> This short piece is based loosely on pixiedurangos prompt-fic [Adopdyopis](http://pixiedurango.tumblr.com/post/124593431852/words-apodyopis) (tumblr), but you can also read it without it, I think. Arya Trevelyan belongs to her.
> 
> This is the first time I wrote a character who belongs to someone else and I'm kinda excited.

He returned from the Winterpalace exhausted, tired and with too many thoughts swirling around in his head.

It had been a long, hard day. Well, they were at war, and in times like this the days were _always_ long and hard. But hard work was something Commander Cullen usually appreciated and was able to manage well, and even enjoyed at times. It gave him inner ease, peace, reliability. _Safety._

Today he'd lost all of it. Today the demons, the memories from which he was fleeing for longer than ten years, they had returned with an intensity he hadn't expected, nor experienced for a long period (except during some of his nightmares). Crawling their claws into his skin, crushing the bones of his head, wringing out his brain. Or at least this was what it had felt like.

Not that he'd told anyone. He'd stood, he'd struggled, and he'd _survived_ it once more. Now he felt better, the pain was ebbing away as all those people who had talked to him, even _touched_ him and hadn't left him alone were–finally–gone.

With a sigh, he took a sip from the fine wine he'd managed to take with him to his guest room, relishing the fruity aroma and welcoming the warmth that, caused by the alcohol, spread through his body.

Now, here, alone, he was finally able to relax a bit, and his thoughts wandered towards more positive directions.

To _her._

Arya Trevelyan, in the middle of this mess of a day, moving between those harpies like a shining light in the darkness. Talking here and there, smiling and twisting them all around her little finger with ease, using her experiences–and her own kind of charm.

A small smile passed his lips, thinking of how proud he was of her, and how well she'd managed the day. Unmasking the assassin, saving the empress, bringing up intrigues and then forcing them all to work together–and for the Inquisition. He still didn't understand completely how she'd managed _that._ It was one of the biggest triumphs the Inquisition had achieved– _she_ had achieved.

He had been worried for her, maybe more than ever before, for it had been the first time he had witnessed her bravery (and not to mention her recklessness when it came to her own safety in a fight) and the danger which always lingered around her from near. When he'd heard about the fights in the royal rooms, waiting, hoping, _breathing_ had almost been impossible. But then she'd returned, alongside her team, all alive, none of them badly injured. _Safe_. And the shards of his world had been put together once more.

Well... almost...

Now they were celebrating their own party at the Inquisition's guest house, apart from all those orlesian nobles, the formal clothing, the etiquette and the stiffness. And Arya had more than deserved that time of happiness.

At times the wind changed and carried their voices– _her_ voice–over to his room. Maybe it was just imagination, but he meant to hear her laughing, talking loudly or cheering at something–or someone. Yes. She was happy, at least for now, and he found himself glad about it.

He hadn't missed the worried, sad look in her face when he'd excused himself and left the party before it had even begun. But she'd understood. She had to. She knew about his struggles, knew about some things from his past, and she'd surely sensed that he'd felt more than uncomfortable in the Winterpalace. That he just couldn't stand _more._ Not more of this loudness, this greedy glimpses, this _awful people_.

And she knew that he could hardly bear seeing the woman he loved in the arms of another man.

No, couldn't bear it _at all_ , not today.

Arya... with Blackwall.

_I should end this. Forget her, moving on._

But now he missed her again already. Just as he always did. Missed her when she was traveling, missed her in the self-chosen solitude of his tower at Skyhold, missed her even when she was around him. Because even if she was around, the longing never abated, for she didn't belong to him, wasn't _his._ And would probably never be.

_I should forget her._

But how?

What was she doing right now? From the sounds the wind carried over there was a lot of music, drinking and fun, probably dancing.

Arya. Dancing.

He'd seen her dancing once, in the Herald's Rest, and he hadn't been able to take his eyes off her. The elegance on one hand, the pure vividness, the lust of life on the other. All of this was shown in her movements, and it was absolutely fascinating. But there had been of course also less subtle things. They way her breasts bounced with her movements. How her perfect round ass painted circles in the air. Well, how could _any_ man not notice this? Warmth spread on his cheeks, this time not caused by the wine, and it spread not only _there._

He moaned quietly as his free hand almost automatically wandered down his stomach, until it came to rest on the bulge of his groin, massaging and squeezing himself firmly through his trousers.

The next moment his trousers and smalls were pulled down and his shaft lay half hard in his hand. He stroked himself, softly at first. Then his grip tightened as he grew harder, and he pleasured himself, just like he'd done it so often before while thinking of the Inquisitor. Maker's breath, they'd even _talked_ about exactly that, that one night at Skyhold. It had been a strange, but somehow arousing situation.*

But this night, release didn't come. He tried, and tried more, and failed. Stroking harder, faster, panting, but his thoughts were drifting away again and again.

He still saw her in his mind, still saw her dancing. But he saw also _him_ , Blackwall, as he watched her, just as Cullen himself wished to. And then he saw Arya again, smiling at the bearded man, and her glimpse, oh that expression. She'd never looked at _him_ like that. Yes, she might feel for him, too, but was it truly love? They way she looked at Blackwall told him otherwise.

He let go of his length with a frustrated snort and pulled his trousers back up before running his hands trough his tousled hair. This was ridiculous.

She wasn't his. And would never be.

Or maybe he was mistaken?

Maybe she _had_ looked at him like that and he just hadn't remarked it?

Maybe she _would_ choose him eventually? She could still change her mind, couldn't she?

_I. Should. Forget. Her._

But how?

Maybe...

As much as he tried to hunt the mess of his thoughts away, he couldn't. He wasn't ready to give up hope. Not quite.

He opened another bottle of wine and continued drinking alone. In solitude, silence. But also loneliness.

**Author's Note:**

> *related to this fic: [Midnight Snack](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4262133)
> 
> Let me know what you think, pixie. I hope I was able to catch Arya at least a little bit, but also Cullen the way you'd imagine what his reactions and thoughts in this situation would be like.


End file.
